


A Bowl of Frozen Tea

by kingcaboodle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other, Slow Burn, Trans Warden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 01:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11003499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcaboodle/pseuds/kingcaboodle
Summary: A pair of souls lost in Ferelden braving the cold to find one another





	A Bowl of Frozen Tea

****

Lothering is quaint. That is a word he has learned since arriving in Ferelden. Quaint. In his native tongue he would have declared the small backwater to be dingy, cold, odorous. But he is in Ferelden, the Common Tongue in his mouth, his sword ripped from his side.

 

So Lothering is quaint, his cage quite cozy, the people eccentric.

 

Sten stares through the bars of the cell, his face set in a grim mask. It was said that his fate was to be sealed by the approaching darkspawn hoard, devoured by soulless creatures seemed only fitting following the loss of his Asala. But that was the past. There was no use dwelling on it any longer.

 

So he sits in the cage. He sits, and he stares ahead, and he ignores the glowers and petrified looks from the villagers passing by. He is not content. He is not regretful. He simply is.

 

He exists only as a physical embodiment of his own failures. And even that is only a temporary role. One to be served until the hoard descends upon the village, breaking the bars of his cage and feasting on his flesh, picking his bones clean until there is nothing left to remind the world of his shortcomings.

 

Sten closes his eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to block out the world around him. For a moment he is no longer in Lothering. He can no longer smell the wet dog of Ferelden, cannot hear the whispers of the villagers, cannot feel the palpable fear of the Blighted land around him. His heart yearns for Seheron. He cannot find the smell of tea and incense in the dampness of his surroundings. Cannot hear the sounds of the marketplace. He is alone with his thoughts, without his soul, with his sorrow.

 

"Huh," the sound is in intrusion on his thoughts. A simple grunt shaking him from his feeble attempts at distraction.

 

In front of him, an Elf accompanied by two Human women and another slobbering Ferelden beast. "Now there," one of them speaks and his eyes note with some unease the glittering staff at her back, "is a proud and noble creature."

 

The Elf stares at him through wild eyes, pointed teeth bared much like the hound at its side. "What'd you do to land yourself in there?"

 

"The Revered Mother said he slaughtered an entire family, on a farm to the south of the village," the other woman, this one a priest, is almost afraid to look at him. Almost as though she fears that simply setting her eyes on him will forcibly tear her from her Maker's side. She moves closer to the Elf, her voice lowering, "He even killed the children."

 

In any other circumstance he would let it go, would ignore the stares and continue with his silent reflection. It was difficult to do so, however, when faced with a spectator who had not taken the terrified cues of their companions too close to heart. The Elf stands with their hands wrapped around the bars of the cell, dark face pressed up close between the gaps. "What're you doing in there?"

 

"Sitting," he replies tightly. "Move along, Elf, I have nothing to say to amuse you."

 

He sees movement behind its black eyes, a flash of firelight from a Saarebas's staff ricocheting through the darkness. "How'd you like to come work for me?"

 

"The Revered Mother has the key," the priest says, her voice high with a sense of urgency that can only mean she wishes nothing more than to leave him to his misery. Sten cannot say that he completely disagrees with her.

 

The Elf's eyes don't leave his own, a cocky look crossing its face. "Doesn't mean we can't give it a try." Another flash of feral teeth, one small hand reaching down to scratch at the ears of its hound. "After all, we've done more with less."

 

It hasn't occurred to anyone that Sten might not want to leave the confines of his prison. That he is content to face his punishment with the grim countenance of any proud Qunari warrior. But staring down into the Elf's feral face, his eyes sweeping over the roadmap of scars distorting its features, he sits back against the iron wall.

 

"Do what you want. It doesn't matter to me."

 

And it doesn't matter. He can stay in his cage; left to fester and rot while waiting for his demise at the hands of the darkspawn should this cocky little thing disappear without a second thought to the keys and his plight. He can go with these strangers, journey through Ferelden with the Blight on his heels and his soul lost on the edges of Lake Calenhad. Regardless of his choices - if they could be called choices - the rest of his life had already been decided, his fate outlined long before he and his brothers had set foot in this Blighted backwater.

 

He had no pretenses of freedom, and while he does not see the point of prolonging the inevitable, he has lost his will to fight.


End file.
